


This Place is a Prison

by Zendelai



Series: Dragon Age One-Shots, Drabbles, and etc. [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Recovery, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zendelai/pseuds/Zendelai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elise Hawke returns from the Deep Roads, her promised gold and only the ghost of Bethany in tow. Unable to cope with the demons of grief and loss, she succumbs to the siren's song of Corff's whiskey, setting her down a path even darker than the Deep Roads themselves.</p><p>My submission for Dragon Age Big Bang 2015, featuring art by Whuffie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> "This Place is a Prison" is my submission for Dragon Age Big Bang 2015.
> 
> A big thank you goes out to my incredibly talented artist, Whuffie, as well as norton7 and penthesilea1623, who were incredibly supportive and helped tidy up this work.
> 
> Please note that this fic contains themes of alcohol abuse & addiction.

  
Art by [Whuffie](http://whuffie.deviantart.com/)

* * *

 

_Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue_

_Sun and ocean blue_

_Their magnificence, it don't make sense to you_

  * _“Black Beauty” - Lana Del Rey_



 

By night’s standards, this had been an unusually lovely one. The moon was full, bright enough to cast dark shadows from the Alienage's various sized buildings. The night sky was alight with stars, constellations that Marethari taught Merrill in her youth that she had promptly forgotten. She thought of the night sky as a warm blanket, wrapping her in its comforting arms and lulling her to sleep.

That's how she felt, anyways, now that she was no longer lost. Being lost makes the night feel foreboding instead of comforting; knowing one's location always makes everything so much less scary.

Take spiders as an example. Being in a dark cave at the top of Sundermount surrounded by spiders was terrifying! But at home, a few of the little spiders skittering across the floor illuminated by candlelight wasn’t scary in the least.

The fact that the spiders on Sundermount were giant likely didn't help the assessment.

Really, how did they even _get_ so big? The spiders in her home were no bigger than her thumbnail. She even _liked_ them a bit. She would never kill them, because they would never hurt her. They just wanted somewhere safe to put up their net and catch some tasty fruit flies. Or mosquitoes. She _hated_ mosquitoes. They just drank her blood and made her itch. But how were those innocent little spiders at all related to the ones on the mountain that were the size of a small black bear? Had it been the result of some sort of spell gone wrong? Had they drunk a spider growth potion? How would something so small even _drink_ a potion? Do they have spider-sized droppers?

Her line of thought was interrupted when the vhenadahl loudly groaned.

She froze at the sound, nearly jumping straight out of her trousers. Vhenadahl's didn't groan, did they? It didn't quite sound like a tree noise, from a branch being weighed down or a root resettling. It sounded almost elvhen. Was there an elf in need, and the tree was telling her? It was the tree of the people, after all, so really it would make sense for it to help people. But how would she help? She wasn't a healer like Anders. She wondered if should she go down to Darktown to look for Anders and get his help, or was it the tree itself that needed help? Anders never seemed to have much of a proficiency with plants; he couldn't even keep most of the herbs in his clinic alive. They all kept getting all brown and wilty, and he never listened when she told him how to properly care for them. He was so _stubborn_ sometimes.

The tree groaned again. It sounded more feminine than she imagined. If she were to personify a tree, it would have been a boy. Then again, trees were fertile like women...

Did the tree just cough? Taking the shortest, most quiet steps she could muster--

Creators! She stepped on a branch, and the crack was explosive in the otherwise silent Alienage.

The tree coughed this time. She was probably in trouble with the tree. Should she apologize?

"I'm sorry for disturbing you, vhenadahl." She bent low at the waist, bowing. "Do you need help?"

The tree coughed once more. She hoped she didn't displease it. She imagined that it would hurt a great amount if it suddenly fell on her.

"Merrill?" The vhenadahl asked. She pondered if trees could speak the Common Tongue. It would really change her opinion on the Brecilian Forest if they could.

Remaining as encouraging as possible she said, "I'm here, vhenadahl."

The tree coughed. "I don't know who vhenadahl is but I could use your help. I seem to have lost my house." The tree groaned again. "Gamlen's house. Whatever."

The tree sounded an awful lot like Hawke.

It continued, "And the whiskey's gone, too. Could you find me some more?"

Hawke's blonde head appeared from the other side of the tree.

Definitely Hawke then.

_Not_ a tree talking to her.

She rounded the tree and crouched beside vhenadahl-Hawke. Well, no, just Hawke.

She looked bloody _awful_.

Hawke must have just returned from the Deep Roads then, because she looked like she had been wrestling with darkspawn. Her leathers were blackened with aged blood stains, her once golden hair was matted and marred with dirt and grime, and the red veins in her eyes contrasted starkly with the greens of her irises. She burped and her head dropped lazily onto Merrill's lap.

"I fucking hate darkspawn," she muttered thickly. There was shattered glass beside her, and a piece was sticking out of her hand, causing a thick drop of mahogany blood to cascade down her palm. Oddly, Hawke didn't seem to notice.

"I fucking hate all of them," she continued. Her eyes became wet with the threat of tears, and her words were so slurred there were nearly unintelligible. "They ruin lives. Life ruiners. I just want to --" she made a stabbing motion with the glass-free hand, "Kill them all. Slowly. But do they feel it? I hope they do."

Unsure of how to react, Merrill ran her hand through Hawke's hair. "You have glass in your hand, you know."

"I do?" Hawke pulled the offending hand up in front of her face. "I do!" She shouted, loudly. Merrill wanted to shush her, fearing she’ll wake the other elves, but she was unsure how. "Get it out." Her wet eyes turned to Merrill, wide with panic, and she held her hand out to her. "Get it out!"

"Do you want to see Anders? It won't hurt as much if he does it."

"No! You do it! Get it out, now, please!" Her words were hurried with panic; Merrill seceded and took Hawke's hand. After a quick reassuring inhale, Merrill grasped the glass and pulled it free. Hawke yelped in surprise, then sighed in contentment. Blood flowed freely from the open wound, coating her already dirty hand. Merrill ripped a strip of fabric from her tunic and wrapped it around Hawke's hand.

"Thank you," muttered Hawke. Her breath truly smelled awful, like decay with an undercurrent of whiskey. "You're a great friend, Merrill." She scrunched her nose. "I didn't want to go see Anders. He doesn't like me very much."

Merrill stroked Hawke's hair again, and her hand came back filthy. "He doesn't like me very much either. I think it's the Grey Warden thing. Or Justice. Makes him grumpy."

Hawke went silent, clenching her bleeding hand into a fist. The blood dyed the fabric a deep maroon. Breaking the silence, she whispered, "Why am I here again?"

"You forgot where Gamlen's house is. Do you want me to take you home?"

Hawke shouted, again. "No!" Merrill knew she would have to take her out of the Alienage soon so she didn't wake her neighbours. Puzzled at her own outburst, Hawke frowned and furrowed her brow.

Merrill offered, "Do you want to stay with me?"

"No." Her eyes became wet again with tears. "I need to go home. But I don't want to."

"Why not?" Her legs were aching from crouching and holding the weight of Hawke's head. She really wanted to move. Some tea would have been lovely, too. But she was afraid to move Hawke, she just seemed so... distressed.

With her uninjured hand, Hawke gripped Merrill's leg. Her lower lip quivered before she burst into loud, gasping sobs. Through Hawke's head and hand Merrill could feel her shaking, the walls she had worked so hard to build over their time knowing each other crumbling around her.

A tear streaked down Merrill's cheek from the sound of her friend breaking.

"B...Beth..." Hawke managed to gasp. "Bethany. She..." It took her another moment to gather the strength to utter the last words. "She died."

Merrill couldn't reserve her reaction; her tiny hands reached up to cover her tinier mouth, a horrified gasp emitting from between her fingers. "Hawke," she gasped. "Oh, Hawke. What happened?"

"The fucking darkspawn!" growled Hawke. "They took her. They took her from me! I..." She banged her injured hand in a fist against the ground, crying out in agony immediately after. "I watched her slowly die."

Whispering, Merrill asked, "Does Leandra know?"

Ashamed, Hawke turned away from Merrill. "No," she muttered. "I... can't. I... how? How can I?" She audibly swallowed. "I _asked_ for Beth to come with me. I asked, and..." Her eyes welled up with renewed tears. "And I lost her. Her baby. My baby _sister_." Swiftly Hawke stood, swaying on the spot when she was upright. She glared at the vhenadahl as if it had wronged her, as if it had made the ogre kill Carver and the darkspawn kill Bethany. "Fuck you, Thedas! FUCK YOU!"

Merrill rose beside Hawke, ignoring the stinging in her legs, and grasped her arm gently. In a low voice, she muttered, "Let's take you home now, Hawke."

Hawke yanked her arm out of Merrill's grasp, swaying unsteadily from the abrupt movement. Upon Merrill she fixed a gaze that could have curdled milk it was so full of hatred and sadness. "Leave me alone."

Merrill's bright green eyes swam with tears. "I just wanted to help."

"Leave me alone," Hawke spat, her tone heavy with vitriol, before she spun and left the Alienage, leaving a weeping Merrill in her unforgiving wake.


	2. Work Song

_Boys, when my baby found me_

_I was three days on a drunken sin_

_I woke with her walls around me_

_Nothin in her room but an empty crib_

_And I was burnin up a fever_

_I didn't care much how long I lived_

  * _“Work Song” - Hozier_



 

A week passed since what Merrill referred to as "The Incident", and still she had not seen Hawke.

It was not for a lack of trying. Desperately she wanted to see her, to know that she was well, but she also didn't want to be meddlesome and intrude on her family's grieving. So she tried to catch her unawares on her daily routines.

Merrill knew that Hawke used to visit the Lowtown Market at midday to pick up fresh vegetables, yet she never appeared. She tried to intercept her Monday and Wednesday visits to Fenris' mansion, yet Hawke had taken that out of her schedule, too. When Hawke didn't appear at the Hanged Man for their Friday night game of Wicked Grace, Merrill knew that a coincidental run-in would no longer suffice.

She decided that visiting Aveline was a good place to start. The City Guard had eyes all over the, well, _city_ after all, so they had to have seen Hawke.

To Merrill's dismay, Aveline brusquely brushed off her inquiries. "Hawke's a big girl," Aveline insisted as she signed off on several important-looking documents with surprising grace considering her heavy plate. "She can take care of herself." Aveline dismissed her with a gruff wave of her hand, but she was far from appeased. So Merrill marched down to Darktown, and Anders' clinic, to see if Hawke had visited the healer.

As always, Anders appeared rushed and exhausted when Merrill stepped in. She patiently waited as he treated a line of patients, most of whom were simply suffering hangovers. When the clinic had finally cleared out, she tentatively approached him. He had clearly voiced his disapproval of Merrill’s blood magic time and time again, but she hoped they could put aside their grievances for the moment, for Hawke’s sake.

She was wrong.

"No, I haven't seen her," he grumbled, shuffling through a bin of potions ingredients.

"But you know that she came back from the Deep Roads?"

Without taking his head out of the bin he snapped, "Of course."

Merrill frowned. She was unsure if Anders knew about Bethany, and she felt that if he didn’t, it wasn't her place to tell him. "It's not like her to disappear for this long, alone. What if Meeran got to her? Gamlen's not very nice either, he could be making her work around the house, and--"

Anders spun, his bloodshot and tired eyes narrowed. "Meeran won't be a problem, and unlike mages, she can come and go from her home at her own will. You're a mage, Merrill, why are you more concerned about Hawke than your own kin? Hawke won't listen to me, she doesn't understand the life of apostate mages like us. Does she not comprehend that our lives are either lived in fear or in _chains_?"

Anders proceeded as such for an uncomfortably long time, until Merrill used the first excuse she could muster ("I have to feed the mice!") to swiftly exit from that bout of discomfort.

 

It wasn’t that Anders was wrong about mages, it was just that he talked about it _all the time_. There were slaves in the world too, like Fenris, who also deserve to be treated more fairly, but Anders didn’t seem to care. He let himself get so caught up in his “mage rights” sometimes that he forgot about everything else, and she knew that was why he wouldn’t be conducivein her search for help for Hawke.

From Darktown she trudged up to Lowtown, her feet growing tired from the hard ground of the city. She ached for the feeling of soft earth and fresh water beneath her weary toes, and she was suddenly saddened by the thought that she wouldn’t be permitted to travel to Sundermount without Hawke.

The sun was beginning to disappear behind the dilapidated buildings of Lowtown when she entered the tavern. The reek of the city seemed to be concentrated there: decay, filth, and every impurity imaginable.

Isabela was absent, but Varric and Fenris sat side-by-side at a table near the stairs, both silent as they drank their ale. She planted her hands on her hips as she marched over.

"Have either of you seen Hawke?" she demanded, growing tired of being brushed off.

Fenris' eyes remained trained on the table, but Varric's reached up to meet Merrill's, and they were filled with more grief and sadness than she had ever seen in his usually bright demeanor.

Bethany's death was something he couldn't just brush off, as he always managed to do.

In a low voice, heavy with the burden of loss, he whispered, "She just lost her sister, Daisy. Give her some time."

Sighing, Merrill collapsed into the seat next to his, her feet throbbing with satisfaction at finally being able to rest. "I know," she muttered, tracing circles on the table with her fingertip. "I saw her when she came back. She looked..." She paused, trying to think of a less offensive word but coming up with nothing, "Absolutely _awful_."

Varric countered, "And you wouldn't?"

"I... I suppose." She sighed. "I'm just worried."

Varric clapped her shoulder. "And I'm sure Hawke appreciates it." Merrill frowned, knowing that Hawke didn't. "Give her some time. I'll let her know that you were looking for her next time I see her, ok?"

Varric sounded so weary and sleepless, and Fenris appeared so despondent, that Merrill reluctantly gave up for the day and took her leave.

\--

It was three nights later that Merrill found Hawke, once again beneath the vhenadahl. Another empty whiskey bottle accompanied her -- this one unbroken -- and she was silent, staring into the blackness that was the cloudy night sky, until Merrill tentatively crossed her legs beside her.

"The world is a fucking cruel place." Hawke's words were so slurred that Merrill had to listen closely to decipher them. From her coat Hawke pulled out a hip flask and took a long swig. "It takes away those who are kind, those who love, and those who deserve life the most." She hiccupped and wiped at her mouth. "The Maker's a greedy bastard, you know. He takes the best souls for himself, leaving the evil, the crooked, and the weak to stay in the mortal realm." She grinned crookedly at Merrill, yet there was no joy in her smile. " _Fuck_ the Maker. _Fuck_ him and His Bride."

Merrill worried her bottom lip. "The world is cruel, yes. But it's beautiful, too. For death, there is birth; for destruction, there is creation; for--"

"You wouldn't understand," Hawke snapped. "It isn't a fucking scale, where life gives you some good and some bad until a balance is achieved. Some are lucky, some are not." She frowned at the roots of the tree, snaking along the ground beside her legs. "I'm one of those who isn't."

Merrill stood, offering her hand out to Hawke. "Losing Bethany was unfair," Merrill conceded. "So was losing your father and Carver. But it's not just about what happens, it's about how you perceive it."

Hawke stared at Merrill's hand, confused, but took another swig from her flask instead. "Thanks, Merrill. And I..." She moistened her dry lips, continuing in a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Hawke never took Merrill's hand, and Merrill eventually left her in peace, returning home. She could see Hawke falling asleep under the vhenadahl, yet when Merrill woke the next morning, Hawke was gone.

\--

The early hour be damned, Hawke wanted more whiskey.

Ignoring the pounding in her head, and deciding that she wasn't ready to yet sink to the level of begging Anders for a hangover cure, she began to wander through the streets in the direction of Gamlen's, wavering on her feet. Her mouth tasted of stale liquor and vomit, her hair was stuck in every direction, every sound resonated through her mind like a war drum, but she could not resist the siren's call of the bottle.

It was wrong, drinking this much. Gamlen was proof of that. But when she was sober, the weight of Bethany seemed so much heavier. Drinking lightened the weight, made it slightly more bearable, even if temporarily.

Her feet had carried her home unawares; she opened the door and tumbled into the kitchen, throwing open every cabinet until she could find something hard enough to quickly drown herself in.

The kitchen door swung open and her mother walked in. She neither looked at nor acknowledged Hawke, sitting at their table with her gaze far away and lost while her last remaining child searched for an exit from her own sorrows. When Hawke finally found a bottle of rum, half-empty and smelling like the varnish Varric used to clean Bianca, she tucked it under her arm and left her lost mother.

 

Just when she was leaving the kitchen, she heard Leandra’s strained and weary voice. “I miss Bethany.”

 

Her grip on the bottle tightening, believing for a moment that her mother was expressing an iota of compassion, Hawke muttered, “Yeah. Me too.”

 

Slowly, her mother’s head shook from side to side, her eyes never leaving the far off point they were fixed on. “If only you had never brought her to that cursed place, Elise, she could be with us now. How could you? How--” She trailed off and sighed, giving up on the argument that had transpired continuously between them since Hawke had returned alone. Unable to stand another moment of the conversation Hawke left, slamming the door behind her.

Kirkwall since her return had become a colourless blur, vague visions of people and places slipping out of her mind to be replaced by poisoned dreams. She remembered entering and almost immediately exiting the Hanged Man, two bottles of Corff’s whiskey in tow. Until then she had never been much of a drinker, but that first swig that left her almost retching allowed a haze to set in that comforted her, only slightly. No longer was every thought obscured by the vision of Bethany's face, her veins black and tainted, the life leaving her bright eyes. Bethany was a candle extinguished before it even had begun to burn. Her life and death had been on the run, trying desperately consolidate the scraps her family had been thrown to make a better life for them. Her tragic story was a mockery of her bright, amicable nature.

And it had all been Elise's fault, for dragging Bethany down to the pit that was the Deep Roads, for not noticing that she was unwell, for not being prepared for the darkspawn that they all knew would be there, for administering the final blow.

Why hadn't she just brought Anders instead?

Why, Maker _why_ had she listened to his insistence that he refused to go down into that place? If she had brought him in lieu of Bethany, her sister could still be alive.

Seated on her scrap of a bed, she fisted the neck of the bottle, her ever present tears threatening to show themselves again and she squeezed her eyes shut to stop them.

She would give the life of anyone -- anyone, herself included -- to have her sister back.

She was immediately ashamed at the thought. She buried it with another chug of the rum; in spite of its burning, each sip went down easier than the last.

In her sorrows she drowned until sleep came unbidden, a rolling blackness that encapsulated her. It was interrupted once when she rolled on her side to vomit, and once again when there was a knocking at the door. Gamlen, Leandra and she ignored it at first, but when it persisted, she heard her mother rise from the kitchen table to answer.

She vaguely recognized the visitor's voice as Merrill's. It could have been a dream, it could have been real; the lines between what existed and what didn't were no longer distinguishable.

"Good afternoon, Leandra. Would Hawke be available, please?" Oh, Merrill and her eternally polite nature.

Her mother's reply was monotonous. "She's sleeping. I'll tell her you were by." The door creaked as Leandra began to close it.

"I... wait!" The door slammed shut, and there was a click as Leandra locked it.

Hawke sighed and rolled over, returning to her restless mix of daydreams and nightmares.


	3. Lighthouse

_And no one’s in the lighthouse_

_You’re face down in the ocean_

_And no one’s in the lighthouse_

_And it seems like you just screamed_

_It’s no one there to hear the sound_

_And it may feel like there’s no one there_

_That cares if you drown_

  * _“Lighthouse” - The Roots_



 

A pattern had begun to develop.

Every night, long after dusk, Hawke would appear beneath the vhenadahl, her partially or entirely empty bottle her only companion. Merrill was unsure if, behind her whiskey-induced haze, Hawke was drawn there by Merrill's compassion or the power of the vhenadahl itself. Regardless, she would always appear, and Merrill would sit beside her, listening.

Lead by the bottle, Hawke was slipping into a darkness with no retreat, becoming as lost as navigating the Deep Roads with no map.  

Merrill had tried everything she knew to help Hawke. She had listened and provided words of consolation, of kindness, of advice, and even of frustration. She was reaching into the fog to try and pull Hawke out, yet Hawke was only letting herself slip deeper and deeper, as if she didn't _want_ to be helped.

Merrill was beginning to realize that she was not the light, the _flame_ , which Hawke needed.

Yet what was? She had tried to meet with Leandra, who was as lost in her grief as Hawke. Once again she had tried reaching out to all of Hawke's friends, but they insisted that Merrill was worrying too much, that Hawke could care for herself, that she needed time to cope.

They didn't see the empty bottles. Merrill had begun to collect the unbroken ones to count them. It was only a portion of Hawke's consumption, but over the course of three weeks, she had collected a dozen.

She wished for the wisdom of Marethari; she would have known what to do. Dalish could always turn to their Keeper to provide a guiding light.

Stirring her porridge, she pondered over who Hawke could turn to. Hawke believed in the Maker, she thought, regardless of how preposterous Merrill thought the tale of the Maker and His Bride was. Was Hawke's belief strong enough that she would listen to someone in the Chantry? They had met the Grand Cleric once before, and she had seemed to be a very kind lady. Would she listen to the pleas of an elf, who only wanted to help her friend?

She may be struck down from the heavens for being a Dalish blood mage entering the Chantry, but Creators, she would try it anyways.

For Hawke.

\--

Sebastian bent low to his knees, tenderly transferring the candle from his hands to its brass holder.

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

_In their blood the_ [ _Maker_ ](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Maker) _'s will is written._

Those who had murdered his family were dead, yet the unrest in his soul would not retreat. The Chantry -- and Grand Cleric Elthina -- had brought him his first taste of peace in so many long years, peace which had been swiftly interrupted in the course of a single letter.

A letter which had changed him and the path of his life.

The smallest of objects can have the greatest impact on the course of the world. A slip of a dagger or an arrow can end the most vital of lives, a whisper can change a country's perception, a letter can alter the course of a country’s future.

His prayer was the same as it had been since that letter: asking for guidance from Andraste in choosing the course of his life.

He was but one man, one man with the future of Starkhaven in his hands.

 

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_

_I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._

_I shall endure._

_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

The hour was small, the sun just beginning to send its rays through the Chantry's windows, and it was quiet save for the sweet sounds of the Chant of Light sung by the devoted. The Chant spoke to his heart, his soul; yet why had it not yet sent him the sign he needed?

He wished to be frustrated and impatient; yet these were traits of his youth, of the life he had left behind.

Tentative, almost silent, steps resonated from behind him, yet he did not lift his head or open his eyes. He vaguely recognized the voice which whispered, far enough behind him that he knew that the words were not meant for him, "Excuse me?"

An exasperated sigh followed the question. He cringed at the voice when the owner of the sigh snapped, "Yes?"

_Petrice_. If he were to even consider his true thoughts of that woman, he would be struck down where he prayed.

"I'm looking to speak with the Grand Cleric? I, you see, I have a friend. At least, I think she's my friend. She's rather unhappy right now, and... oh, goodness, is this something I should discuss with the Grand Cleric? I don't want to--"

Sebastian's brow furrowed, but he still did not rise. The voice was that of one of Hawke's companions, her name just out of his grasp.

"The Grand Cleric is a busy woman," Petrice snapped. Sebastian heard her shuffle paperwork noisily. "She has no time for... _elves_." An alarming amount of vitriol was laid on the last word. He turned his thoughts towards the light of the Maker's Bride to banish his own vitriol towards Petrice.

"My friend isn't an elf," insisted Hawke's companion. "She's a human. She's Andrastian too, I think. She believes in the Maker, anyways. But her sister... died..." she whispered the last word, "And she--"

"The Grand Cleric does not have time for such foolishness. Off with you."

"Please, I don't know who else--"

Sebastian sighed. This could go on no longer; he had heard enough. Grabbing his candle he slowly rose, his spine uncurling vertebrae by vertebrae, the tension easing out of his knees.

When he turned to face the women, Petrice was wearing her trademark scowl, the one reserved for those she considered beneath her, a category reserved for most. In her arms she carried scrawls overflowing, and she kept herself as far away from the elf as possible. The elf girl, on the other hand, only wore an expression of concern and consternation, her fingers laced before her, her bare toe scuffing a circle on the Chantry floor.

Merrill. Her name was Merrill.

Petrice started when Sebastian approached them, her mouth widening before her scowl returned and even deepened.

Their dislike was mutual.

Sebastian ignored her completely, extending his hand to Merrill. She stared at his outstretched hand, wide eyed, before clasping it and meeting his sea blue eyes with her forest green ones. "It's good to see you again, Merrill. Is there something the Chantry can help you with?"

"Sebastian!" A wide smile lifted her cheeks and lit up her eyes. She stepped forward as if she considered embracing him, but spotting the disgust in Petrice's glare, she thought better of it and leaned away.

Incredulous, Petrice asked, "You know her?"

"Oh, yes. Merrill assisted in taking down Flint Company with Elise Hawke." He didn't miss the flash of darkness that crossed Petrice's eyes at the mention of Hawke’s name. He turned his attention back to Merrill. "I heard you mention a friend? A friend who needs the Grand Cleric's help?"

Merrill’s unsure gaze darted between Petrice and Sebastian. After a pause, she muttered, "Yes. Can we discuss it..." she leaned towards him, whispering, "In private?"

Through his thick lashes, he shot Petrice a knowing look. Without taking his eyes away from Petrice's, he said to Merrill, "Absolutely. The Chantry is welcome to _all_." Peeling his eyes away from Petrice's poisonous grey, he gently rested his hand under Merrill's elbow and guided her towards a lone bench situated in a far corner of the Chantry. As it was still early, few Brothers and Sisters passed them, but all left them to their business and focused on their own tasks at hand.

Merrill swept into the seat next to him, tucking her skirt under her legs as she did. "She's rather unpleasant, isn't she?" she asked conversationally.

A roaring laugh that he didn't bother to conceal poured out of Sebastian's throat. "Oh, she can be.” He sighed, and resumed the calm facade of a Brother. "But what ails you, Merrill? I heard you mention a friend, and her sister."

Merrill nervously wet her lips. "I... yes. Yes."

Resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together, he leaned in closer and whispered, "Is it Hawke?"

Merrill's gaze fell shamefully. "Yes. It is." Her orb-like eyes met Sebastian's. "Bethany was with Hawke and I, right? When we killed those bandits for you?"

He had to admit that he appreciated how forthright Merrill was proving to be. "Yes, she was. She was a kind woman."

Merrill nodded solemnly. "She was. Hawke told me that she was lost in the Deep Roads, tainted by darkspawn."

A frown creased Sebastian's brow; the Blight was a cursed way to go, a fate no person so bright should have to suffer. "I'm sorry for the loss of your friend, Merrill. She is at the Maker’s side now. I will pray for her, and for Hawke."

"It's not just that." She began to wring her hands together. Maker, but they were tiny things, and he didn't miss the scars that marred the wrists above them. "Since Hawke came back without Bethany, she's been drinking. A lot." She shifted uncomfortably. "She comes to the Alienage almost every night now. She's so drunk she never remembers. I've tried to talk to her mother, but she just shuts the door on me, and her friends..." Those bright orbs were moistening with tears, and Sebastian took one of her hands to comfort her. "They love her, but they keep telling me to let her grieve. I know she needs time, but I'm worried that she'll drink so much that she won't wake up one day." Her last words were whispered, and Sebastian clasped both her hands in his own.

"I'll help you, and I'll help Hawke, in any way that I can."

Merrill gaped, her eyes widening in excitement. He doubted she had expected such a positive response. "Really? You will?" She surprised him when she threw her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in close for a hug. "Oh, thank you Sebastian. This means so much."

He embraced her back, yet his expression darkened.

Hawke's path was one too familiar to him. One he knew had destructive tendencies.

And he would do everything in his power -- and the Maker's -- to stop that from happening.


	4. This Place is a Prison

_I know there's a big world out there like the one i saw on the screen_

_In my living room late last night,_

_It was almost too bright to see_

_And i know that it's not a party if it happens every night_

_Pretending there's glamour and candelabra_

_When you're drinking by candlelight_

  * _“This Place is a Prison” - The Postal Service_



 

Long ago, in days of happiness for the Hawke family, Malcolm had told Elise that he believed candles were romantic. For their anniversary or Leandra’s birthday, he would send the children to stay with the neighbours and cook dinner for his wife. By candlelight they would eat, aglow with the soft flicker of the flame, reveling in their rarely found moment of peace and privacy.

Now that Malcolm had been hunted down and killed by templars, Hawke found candles to be anything but romantic. They were a reminder of a family she once had, a contentment long past to be replaced by a refugee's life.

A refugee with nothing except for a pile of gold dug up from the deepest chasms of Thedas. And she would give up every piece of it to have Bethany, or Carver, or her father back.

Instead she was a lone piece of refuse, swept away by the powerful tide of loss, throwing her in every direction until she was left to drown in the middle of an unforgiving sea.

In that bastard of a sea, her alcohol was the only thing keeping her floating. She took another long drink, two shots' worth; it sent a line of fire down her worn throat. The bottle banged against the table, causing the candlelight to flicker momentarily before settling, casting an orange glow from the light of the fire passing through the amber liquid.

Her head swam from the poison she was seeping into her body, and blackness began to cloud the edges of her vision. She didn't mind, really. Letting the blackness consume her helped keep the nightmares at bay, and she didn't think she could survive another night with those.

For a moment that was both brief and too long, she wondered what it would be like to die. To drown. To stop flailing in the middle of the ocean in an attempt to keep herself afloat. To let the waves pull her down, to let the water fill her lungs, to let the blackness eternally set in.

And then someone knocked at the door.

Her eyes fixed on the candle, its hot wax dripping a slow line down its length, she grumbled, "I'm not interested."

The voice at the door responded, "I'm not selling anything."

Dramatically, she rolled her eyes. Few people in Kirkwall were from Starkhaven, and even fewer still had that strong of a lilt.

"You're a Brother, you're trying to sell the Maker to me. So, I'm not interested."

Sebastian chuckled, a low, friendly sound. "Not today, Hawke. I just want to talk. May I come in?"

Again she rolled her eyes, yet she knew it would be rude to turn him away now that he knew she was home. She stood, swaying on the spot and bracing her weight on the whiskey bottle. With her free hand she pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to bring some sense to herself, before hobbling over to the door and swinging it open.

At first glance, she wasn't sure what was brighter: Sebastian's obnoxious emory armour, or the blinding midday sun. Her first reaction was to cover her eyes with her arm and squeak, taking a retreating step into the house again, where the few windows were covered by dark, closed blinds.

"Alright," she grumbled, swallowing down a surprise mouthful of bile that rose up her throat. Warily she peered at him through one open eye. "Let's do the talking... thing."

"May I come in?" he repeated.

To her hovel of misery that smelled of a distillery? Andraste's knickers, no. "What do you need, Brother?"

His hands were clasped behind his back and his chest was protruding in that cursed holier-than-thou posture. "As a Brother, I hear many rumours pass through the Chantry. One of them was that Bethany is now at the Maker's side. I've come to offer my condolences."

Hawke's posture was as stiff as her words. "Her loss in keenly felt in the family. Thank you for your condolences." She began to close the door, but Sebastian stuck his boot out to stop her.

He poked his head through the small opening in the doorway. "Many who grieve find solace in the Chantry."

"I'm _not_ one of those people," she snapped.

His gaze was probing through her, analyzing her like a difficult problem. "Others find solace in other places. Less _healthy_ places." She watched him shift his weight, yet his tone remained confident. "You're a remarkable woman, Hawke. It would worry me to find out that you're seeking out these less healthy places."

Her fingers curled up into fists and her eyes narrowed. Through clenched teeth she seethed, "Just what are you implying?"

He sighed in resignation. "Your friends worry about you staying indoors so frequently, and potentially drinking in excess. I want you to know that the Chantry can offer --"

A growl tore from her throat. How dare he? How dare this man who barely knew her show up on her doorstep, believing that he could interfere in her life? Did he truly think that the bloody Chantry was going to solve all of her problems? That the Maker would say "oops, I made a mistake" and bring Bethany back to her? He was nothing but a useless preacher, and he needed to get his pious ass off of her doorstep. "The Chantry can't offer me shit." Involuntarily, her voice began to raise. "I don't know why in Thedas you think that you have a right to interfere in my dealings, but you don't." From the corner nearest the door she pulled out one of her bows; it was crafted of birch, yielding but far from powerful, and she always kept it by the door for protection. She pulled an arrow out of the adjacent quiver, nocked it, and pointed it straight at Sebastian's chest. "You've seen me fight, so you know that I can't miss at this distance. Leave, now, and if I ever see you near this house again, I'll put this arrow through your fucking eye."

His expression crestfallen, Sebastian held his hands up and stepped away from the door. Before he left, however, he added, "There are those who love you and who are concerned, Hawke. Don't forget about them." With that he dashed down the stairs, his hood swirling behind him, before retreating towards the Alienage. Hawke threw her bow and arrow on the ground before slamming and locking the door, retreating once again to her solitude by candlelight.

\--

Down the stairs Sebastian trotted to where Merrill waited, her hands clasped in front of her chest and her eyes wide in anticipation. The moment she saw his expression of desolation, she frowned.

"It didn't go well, did it?"

Sebastian sighed. "Well, she aimed her bow at me and threatened to shoot me in the eye if I come near her home again."

"Ah. So, no."

"No, I would say it didn't."

Merrill crossed her arms and rapped her fingers on her elbow. When her eyes met Sebastian's, they were full of determination. "I'm not giving up on Hawke."

A faint smile lifted the corner of his lips, bringing out his dimple. "Nor am I."

Merrill's eyes twinkled. "Good."

"But I don't think that she's going to listen to me, at least not without your help."

"Can you come back here at midnight?" She asked, and he nodded in response. "Good. Meet me here then. Wait to speak with Hawke until you see me."

"Ok, Merrill."

She smiled up at him. "Thank you, Sebastian, again."

He headed back towards Hightown and the Chantry, hoping to get a few hours' sleep before he met with Merrill.

\--

The night was a cloudy one and, combined with the new moon, Sebastian could barely see on his way to the Alienage so he maintained a slow pace.

He moistened his lips with a dart of his tongue when he reached the stairs and found that Merrill was not yet there. As he trotted downwards, however, he heard voices from the base of the tree, the candlelight surrounding it unusually bright in the black night.

"I just..." He recognized that voice as Hawke's. He stayed a few paces back, just out of eyesight, listening to their conversation. "I can't even imagine what Beth went through, you know?" Hawke hiccupped. "She didn't get to die swiftly and mercifully, like Carver or Da. She was slowly dying but she was too --" She sniffed, "Too nice to say anything to me. She didn't want to worry me. She didn't want to..." She began to sob, a low and dreadful sound, and he could see her shoulders shaking from his viewpoint. Merrill wrapped her arm around Hawke's shoulder and made low, soothing hushing noises.

Taking a series of tentative steps forward, Sebastian reached the two women. Both sat cross legged, Hawke with a bottle between hers, and both gazed up at him through thick lashes, Merrill's eyes moist and Hawke's positively soaked with tears. He was pleased that Hawke didn't immediately greet him with hostility, so he crouched beside her. She smelled like she hadn't bathed since the Deep Roads. "For what it's worth, it's a kindness that you could say goodbye to her."

Hawke's bloodshot, lined eyes turned away from him, fixing on a far away point. "I watched the life leave her eyes," she whispered, "And believe me when I say, that was no kindness."

_I wish, more than anything, that I had been able to say goodbye to my family_ , he thought to himself, but he swiftly swallowed down his retort. Now was not a time for his own sorrows, it was a time for Hawke's.

"The Blight is the worst curse to ever touch Thedas. It is a shame that someone as kind as your sister had to be lost to it."

Hawke scrubbed her face, and her words were choked. "I hate the bloody fucking Blight." When she pulled her hand away, he found her face tear stricken. "It's taken my home... my brother... my sister..." Her jaw clenched and her eyes squeezed shut. From between her lids, heavy tears began to flow. "Every night," her whisper trembled, "Every night in my sleep I have to watch Bethany die."

Sebastian empathized, more than a little familiar with the nightmares himself, of every way his brothers, his parents, his nieces and nephews could have died at the hands of mercenaries.

"I watched the life leave her eyes," she repeated forcefully. "I watched all the brightness -- all the colour -- that was Bethy slip away to be replaced by poisoned blackness." Her fists clenched as she said the last word. "And I have to watch that over and over again, every night." The last words were barely decipherable until she broke down into heavy sobs, her head lolling forward and her shoulders heaving. Sebastian wanted to hug her, hold her, tell her that everything would be alright even if he knew it wasn't, that it never would be.

Sebastian's tone was dark when he said, "Drinking won't help, Hawke."

Almost childish in her grief, she whispered, "It makes the nightmares go away."

"Only time can truly make those go away."

"I can't do it!" She gasped, heaving through tears. "I can't keep… I can’t…” she pinched her eyes tightly closed. “I can’t keep hiding…”

 

Merrill whispered, “Hiding from what?”

 

In a voice so low he had to lean in to hear, Hawke gasped, “I did it. To stop her suffering. I… I killed…” Her remaining words tumbled out in a jumble. “I killed her, I killed Bethany, my Bethany, my baby sister, my _light_ , I did it so she didn’t have to suffer from that fucking _poison_ anymore, I did it!” She was winded when she had finished, her chest rapidly rising and falling.

 

Merrill rested the most tentative of hands on Hawke’s arm. “You had to stop the suffering.”

 

As if experiencing a brief moment of clarity, Hawke whispered, “I did. I know. But now…” She swallowed. “The nightmares. Every night… every single _night_ … I watch my blade sinking into my own sister, again and again.” She sniffed through a clogged nose. “Drinking is the only thing that keeps the nightmares at bay.”

“This drinking will kill you,” Sebastian warned her, his brow furrowing in concern. Hawke was traveling down a dangerous path, indeed.

In one snap, Hawke’s head popped up, her reddened eyes locking with his. "Good. Good! I hope it does. Because, Maker, sometimes I wish I was dead."

Merrill gasped, tears streaming down her alabaster cheeks. Sebastian's jaw set in determination. Hawke needed help even more than he had thought. He sought Merrill's eyes, and when they met, there was a shared determination behind her fear.

"I'd like to be alone," Hawke muttered darkly.

Afraid to acquiesce to her request, Sebastian plead, "Can I walk you home?"

She swiftly responded, "No," before hefting herself up, toppling the bottle at her feet. She wavered when she bent down to pick it up and Sebastian had to reach to catch her; her arm was cold beneath his palm. She yanked her arm out of his grasp and stomped off, nearly falling on the way.

Merrill and Sebastian were left alone, the bright candles’ flames dimming as they reached the ends of their wicks, the only sound being Merrill's soft tears; after time, like the candles’ flames, they began to abate.

When she was calm again, Sebastian asked, "Merrill? Hawke has other friends, true friends like you, right?"

Merrill sniffed and nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"They need to know what's happening with Hawke. Do you think you could inform them of the situation and arrange a meeting with all of them? I'd like to be there, too." He let out a huff of breath. "Hawke won't like it if she knows what we're up to, so we need to invite her to the meeting place under false circumstances. It will hurt, but she needs to know that many care for her and worry about her." Merrill nodded again, and when their eyes met, hers were shining with both tears and a small amount of hope.

Maintaining a reassuring tone, he said, "We'll help her, Merrill. We will."

Her lower lip began to tremble. "Getting your help was the best thing I could have done, Sebastian." She threw her thin arms around him. "Thank you."

He returned her embrace, but his expression did not soften.


	5. Mykonos

_Brother, you don't need to turn me away_

_I was waiting down at the ancient gate_

_You go wherever you go today_

_You go today_

  * _“Mykonos” - Fleet Foxes_



 

As still as a statue, Sebastian sat in the wooden chair, his eyes closed and his hands clasped before him in silent prayer, for both Hawke and himself.

Surrounding him was chaos created by entirely new faces, with the exception of Merrill and Varric Tethras, a man he knew mostly by reputation, whose room in the Hanged Man they were currently occupying. Hawke's close friends were gathered in a circle, an empty seat awaiting her arrival. Guard Captain Vallen was scolding the pirate, Isabela, for "drinking at a time like this". The elf warrior, Fenris, was beside them, wordless and scowling. Varric was speaking in a low voice to a tired-looking man who had introduced himself as Anders, who appeared to grow more and more worried at what Varric was saying. Merrill was on Sebastian's other side, her seat close to his, her brow furrowed with worry.

The door swung open and the room plunged into deep silence, only punctuated by the sound of Isabela slipping her now empty class into hiding. The tension electrified the air as everyone gazed at the new entrant, filled with trepidation at what was ahead.

Hawke stepped in, her mouth and eyes wide in astonishment as she took in everyone laid out before her. Slowly, she shut the door behind her, while grumbling in displeasure, "What's going on, Varric? I thought you said to meet here for a job."

Varric stood and, gripping his hands behind his back, put on his best charm whilst retaining a necessarily serious disposition. "I told a little fib, Hawke, and for that I'm sorry. But we're all worried about you right now, and want the chance to talk about it."

"What is this?" she seethed, pedaling back until the door halted her retreat. "If this is about my sister --"

Varric held his hand up to stop her. "This is about you. Now please," he gestured to the empty chair directly across from him. "Sit."

Hawke's eyes darted between Varric and the empty chair; after a long period of indecision she slid into it, remaining rigid in tension, gripping the sides with white-knuckled palms. Sebastian was reminded of a caged animal, her eyes darting for the nearest exit from the situation with no escape.

She would have to face her fears, whether she approved or not.

"What is this?" she repeated, her eyes jumping between her companions, lingering on Sebastian, her brows briefly furrowing in question before smoothing out again.

As planned, it was Merrill who began. She stood, clasping her hands before her with her gaze fixed upon them, afraid to watch Hawke's reaction. "Hawke." She cleared her throat, and repeated, "Hawke. Every night -- well, almost every night -- you've been coming to the Alienage. Do you remember?"

Hawke's jaw clenched and Sebastian could hear her teeth grinding, her fervent gaze fixed on the filthy floor. After the space of a dozen breaths, barely audibly she croaked, "No."

As if speaking to a child, Merrill inquired, "Do you know why?"

Responding quickly this time, her shoulders and back tensing even further, Hawke seethed, "I'm not a _fool_. It's because I'm bloody drunk."

Merrill began to wring her hands. "That's what worries me, Hawke. It's what worries all of us." Merrill's eyes finally lifted from her hands to scan the room. "I -- we -- all are very sorry about what happened to Bethany, but --"

Hawke's eyes lifted, every muscle in her body as tense as a coiled spring, and she shouted, "Sorry doesn't fucking bring her back!"

Merrill's mouth snapped shut with an audible smack.

"She's _gone_. I drink to _forget_. You would too if you had watched your sister succumb to the Maker-damned Blight. Why do you all feel that you have the right to meddle?"

To Sebastian's surprise, it was Aveline who stood next, and Merrill slowly lowered herself back into her chair, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Aveline's fists were clenched, her teeth bared, as she growled, "You think I don't know how that feels? To watch someone you love slowly die, knowing there's nothing you can do but kill them so they don't suffer?"

Hawke's nose crinkled in displeasure and she opened her mouth to retort, but Aveline wasn't done with her yet. "I miss Wesley every day. But do you see me drinking my sorrows away, hiding in my home, thinking that the world will stop because of my grief? No. I found _purpose_ ," she was jabbing a forefinger in Hawke's direction, "Instead of hiding like a _coward_."

The chair Hawke had been seated on was knocked on its side she stood so quickly, leveling herself with the angry Guard Captain. "Call me a coward again, Aveline." Were she not swaying where she stood, Hawke's fury would have been terrifying. "My father is _dead_. You _watched_ my brother die. Now my sister is dead, too, and you have the bloody audacity to call me a coward?" She jabbed her forefinger into Aveline's plated chest. "I thought you were a _friend_ , Aveline."

Aveline's expression fell and she leaned away from Hawke, accepting defeat for the moment. "You've been through more than any person should, Hawke." She deeply sighed. "But this is _not_ the way to cope with that."

Hawke leaned back as well, but she did not return to her seat. "Anyone _else_ want to point out my shortcomings? My weaknesses?"

"It is not weakness to search for a respite from grief." Hawke's head turned towards the speaker, Fenris. "But why did you retreat to solitude? I would have listened to you, Hawke."

Her lip curled. "You're one to speak of using solitude to hide from one's sorrows."

Varric spoke up, his tone steady in an attempt at easing the tension. "Easy now, Hawke. No need to turn this into a fight."

She whipped to Varric, her teeth bared in anger. "You all come together to point out my shortcomings and then tell me not to fight? Do you expect me to roll over, shout 'I am weak!' and cope in the way that you find most suitable?"

Leaning forward in his chair, Anders snapped, "It's not about whether it's _suitable_! It's about whether it's bloody _dangerous_! Do you know how damaging it is to have that much alcohol that often?"

"You think I care?" Hawke roared, throwing her hands above her head. "You think I give a damn about my health right now? All my family members are dead or vilify me. All I have is my bloody gold that I've earned from the 'adventure'," she used air quotes to punctuate, "And a mother that won't look me in the eye because she knows that Bethany would be alive if not for me! So no, I'm not particularly concerned about my bloody _health_ right now."

Merrill whispered, "You're not. But we are."

Merrill's words seemed to take some of the fight out of Hawke; her shoulders slumped and she pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. "I appreciate that, Merrill. I do." Her hands fell meekly to her sides and her gaze rose to the ceiling, fighting back to tears that were threatening to weaken her. "But none of this will bring Bethany back. None of this will change the damage that has already been done."

Silence swept over the room like a gust of wind, and Hawke pulled her chair off the floor to slouch into it again.

Sebastian licked his lips, knowing that his time had come. He turned to face Hawke beside him and he fixed a hard gaze upon her; when she met it, her eyes were unexpectedly dry. "May I tell a story?" he asked.

Hawke shrugged noncommittally, but he did see the other occupants all turn their attention to him.

"You know that my parents exiled me to the Chantry when I was young. Do you know why?"

Isabela snorted. "Because you enjoyed what all proper men do: wine and women?"

Instead of laughing in response, Sebastian frowned. "Yes," he solemnly said. "But it was not the women that got me in trouble; oh no, that was somewhat expected of a Prince. It was the wine," his eyes met Hawke's, "And the overindulgence of it.

"It seemed fun at first: lavish parties with beautiful women and the wine flowing endlessly. We even had the Palace's healer to cure any ill effects the next morning, so I was ready to drink again by lunch the next day." He slowly shook his head at his own foolishness. "At the time, it all seemed so grand! All the wine I could drink with no side effects. Never once did I give a thought to what it all meant."

He swallowed, frowning down at his hands. "I became addicted to it. I would drink with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No longer did I want to, but I _had_ to. It called to me, dragged me down, until it became my life." His throat became choked with tears forged by the memory of the worst time in his life, and when he swallowed the lump down, it ached. "My healer was the one who finally spoke out. He told my parents of the monster that I had become. They sent me to the Chantry the next week." His eyes met Hawke's, and upon seeing the moisture in her green eyes, his became damp with the tears he could no longer hold back. "When I came to the Chantry and met Elthina... she helped me recover, showed me that life can be fulfilling without alcohol. It took time, and no small amount of rebellion, but I was able to get away from it and my life has been better tenfold since then." He reached across to squeeze Hawke's hand; her lower lip was trembling. "I can't see you suffer the same fate as I did, Hawke." Her response was wordless, but he could see the tears streaking down her cheeks, and he watched her mouth the words 'thank you'.

Silence overtook the room again, until Isabela broke it. "Whiskey is fun, kitten, but only once in a while. You can't live like this."

"It's the..." Hawke breathed, pausing to gasp for the air that was being pulled from her lungs by tears. "It's the nightmares. I can't do it. I can't watch her die every night in my sleep. I can’t… watch myself kill her every night in my sleep. I can't."

In spite of her confession, her companions remained unperturbed.

 

"You are not alone." Fenris' tone was filled with determination. "I... experience similar nightmares of the Deep Roads."

Varric cleared his throat, his tone unusually solemn. "Broody's right. I get them too. Those Deep Roads were a nightmare."

Aveline shot Varric a skeptical look. "Really, Varric? You're a writer and that's the best description you've got?"

After such a long period of listening, Merrill's voice was slightly hoarse when she spoke. "Would it help if you had someone there with you? When you slept?" At Isabela's immediately intrigued expression, Merrill chastised, " _Isabela_! Not like that. I just mean, you know, in the same room. So Hawke's not alone. I would do it. I'll sleep on the floor. I don't mind. My bed at home is dreadfully uncomfortable, anyways. And filled with mice."

"If it helped..." Anders shot her a crooked smile. "I would stay with you, Hawke."

"As would I," intoned Fenris.

"I would, but only if I could sleep in the same bed as you, Hawke." At Aveline's glare, Isabela rolled her eyes and added, "Or in another bed. But not on the bloody floor."

"I've been on the night shift," said Aveline, "But I could switch to the day shift. Depending on when you've been sleeping."

Varric added, "You could come here, too. Reeks of liquor and piss, but so does your house."

"Varric," Merrill scolded. "I find Hawke's house usually smells nice. Nicer than here, at least."

In mock abashment, Varric put his hand to his chest. "You wound me, Daisy."

Interrupting their diatribe, Sebastian said, "There are many who care about you and love you, Hawke, and they want to see you well. Your mother may be laying blame unfairly in grief, but she loves you and wants to see you well, too."

Hawke audibly swallowed, her moist eyes dancing around the group of close friends who cared about her greatly. "You would all do that? For me?"

"Of course," said Anders.

In a surprisingly tender tone, Isabela added, "If it helps, we can stop drinking too. Do it together, as a team."

At a loss for words, Hawke dashed out of her chair and threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Isabela's neck, burying her face in Isabela's vast head of hair while sobs flew freely from her. When she had calmed enough to peel herself from Isabela's embrace, she reached out to each friend in turn, embracing them and thanking them profusely.

Finally she reached Sebastian. Her eyes had just begun to dry, and she smiled down at him fondly. She grasped his hands in hers and said, "I barely know you, but you've helped me so much. A simple thank you seems insufficient."

Sebastian smiled, although it did not reach his eyes. "I've been where you are. I’ve both lost my family and I’ve succumbed to the siren's song of alcohol. But I also know that through the pain, there is hope. May the Maker always watch over you, Hawke, and remember, the Chantry's doors are always open to you."

Firmly she squeezed his hands before she let go. "I think I may take you up on that offer."

The returned smile did reach his eyes. "That is something I would like very much."


	6. A Rush of Blood to the Head

_Honey, all the movements you're starting to make_

_See me crumble and fall on my face_

_And I know the mistakes that I've made_

_See it all disappear without trace_

_And they call as they beckon you on_

_They say start as you need to go on_

  * _“A Rush of Blood to the Head” - Coldplay_



 

Six months had passed since the road to Hawke's recovery had begun.

It had not been an easy road; no, quite the opposite. It had been more akin to the Hawke family's path from Lothering to Kirkwall, filled with trials and tribulations. Yet knowing that she had the support of loved ones at her side made each trial that much less difficult to bear.

At first, her body's cravings for alcohol were nearly impossible to resist. The nightmares lessened, but only because of her complete inability to sleep. She would toss and turn in her bed while her body yearned for the numbness of drink, crying out for the black oblivion. Were it not for Merrill at her side, as sleepless as she, Hawke was sure that she would have given in the first night and it would have all been for naught.

By leagues, the first night was the worst. As the last of the alcohol wormed its way out of her body, she was more violently ill than she believed possible. Every content of her stomach was spilled, her headache was entirely unbearable, and she became so weak she could barely stand. Finally Merrill retrieved Anders to come by and heal her, providing her a respite from illness; the battle, however, was far from over. For every moment she began to close her eyes was tainted by the images of not only Bethany, but Carver and her father as well. When she could take no more and stood for a drink -- just one, just enough to take the edge off -- Merrill stopped her, and fury blinded her. She screamed and cried and beat her fists against the wall like an infant having a tantrum, but Merrill would listen to none of it. When Hawke grew so angry that she pushed Merrill aside to enter the kitchen and find alcohol for herself, Merrill admitted that she had given it all away to the street urchins to sell, and Hawke flew into a rage. Everything in the house she threw, and the noise was so great that it pulled Leandra from the trance created by her grief.

 

“What in the name of the Maker is going on?” Leandra hissed, her clothing tattered and her hair in complete disarray.

 

Her eyes ablaze with fury unrestrained, Hawke rushed to her and shoved her forefinger into her mother’s chest. “You took it, didn’t you?”

 

“Took _what_?”

 

Hawke’s hands flew into the air in frustration. “For the love of the Maker, the _whiskey_! The bloody _whiskey_! You took it, didn’t you! You helped Merrill. You want me to suffer.”

 

Tears sprung into Leandra’s tired eyes, and the sheer lack of hope in her voice would have been enough to calm Hawke down, were her thoughts not addled by withdrawal. “You know nothing of loss and suffering.”

 

Her weakened mind turned her mother’s anguish into a challenge, and Hawke’s voice rose. “I know it as bloody well as you do, Mother.”

 

“Your father, Carver, Bethany, none of it was my fault!” Leandra’s grief warped her voice into a wail, before eerily dropping several registers. “It was _yours_ , though. _You_ could have stopped Carver charging into that ogre. _You_ could have kept Bethany from the Deep Roads.”

 

“What the fuck was I supposed to do!” snapped Hawke, drawing her face in so their noses were almost touching. “Make Bethany miserable by keeping her here against her will? Jump in front of that bloody ogre for Carver?”

 

Leandra paused, and when she spoke, all emotion, all of the loss she had suffered, was drawn out of her voice entirely. “I wish you did. I’d rather have them here than you.”

 

Their eyes were locked but the silence between them made the air in the room stiff, charged by electricity even in the absence of magic. Mother and daughter’s gazes met, one stone cold and one ablaze with fury, before the door swung flew open and Aveline charged in, her face already flushed with anger, one hand protectively wrapped around her sword and the other clenched into a white-knuckled fist.

 

“What in the name of Andraste is going on here?” she roared. “I just received a noise complaint from your neighbour and this is what I find?” Her disappointment turned her fair skin into the shade of a cooked beet. Aveline stepped between the mother and daughter, forcing them apart with strong hands. “I cannot _believe_ you two. You lose a daughter, a sister, and do you comfort each other?” Framed by furrowed brows, her scolding gaze darted between them. “No. You reverted to a drunk and a ghost.”

 

Leandra’s haunted gaze floated up from the floor. “You’ve been drinking, Elise?”

 

“Yes, _Mother_ ,” she snapped, “But you’ve been so damn stuck on yourself you haven’t noticed.”

 

“I…” Leandra flushed in shame. It was an embarassment to be scolded by a woman her daughter’s age, yet in the depths of her heart she knew that Aveline was right. She had never even asked Elise if she was well, never mind providing comfort, and hot tears of shame pooled in her eyes. “I have been. I’m sorry.”

 

Now it was Elise’s turn to flush, and her voice was low in discomfort. “I owe you an apology, too. I haven’t exactly been supportive for you, either.”

 

Although her arms were crossed her gaze softened, and Aveline took a step back from the two women towards Merrill, who had remained silent in the corner during the exchange.

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” whispered Leandra. “Carver _wanted_ to protect the family, and I _know_ that Bethany wanted to go to the Deep Roads, and she knew the risk.”

 

Elise let out a shuddering sigh. “I know I could have done more. And I will do more.” Her gaze became stern as it met her mother’s. “I’ll get us the estate back.”

 

“No, Elise.” She grabbed her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her into a warm embrace. “We’ll do it together.”

 

\--

 

The nights after the first continued to be a challenge. The nightmares continued, more vivid than ever, and the only way she was kept from drinking was due to the strength of her friends, who so rarely left her side. It made her sleepless and often exhausted, her greatest aid being endless pots of strong tea. On the second day, with the aid of Isabela she bathed for the first time in Maker knew how long, and when she stepped out the bathwater was black so she ran herself another.

Her companions began to find various ways to keep her occupied during the day, which had the dual effect of keeping her out of trouble while tiring her to the point of exhaustion to reduce the impact of the nightmares. As weeks passed, a schedule began to develop in her day, one which she treasured.

It would begin with Fenris arriving at dawn. They would enter Gamlen's miniscule back yard to stretch and exercise until breakfast, which Leandra cooked for them both. Sebastian would join them after the morning service for a brief round of archery practice; to Hawke's great chagrin, her abilities had diminished over the weeks of darkness, and it took her weeks to get her focus back to Sebastian's level. However, they taught each other much and proved to be a formidable team.

When noontime arrived so did Anders for her lessons in basic herbalism. Anders was a formidable healer but Bethany had been their potion crafter, and Hawke wanted to preserve the craft for future jobs completed together. It had proved to be difficult at first, both the craft itself and the ramifications of no longer having Bethany available to do it, but within the passing months Hawke learned basic elfroot and healing potions. After luncheon Varric would interrupt their lessons so Anders could return to the clinic, and Hawke and he would visit with his informants, urchins, and whoever else was on his payroll to learn of the goings on around town. Hawke learned much about the nobles and impoverished alike, and used the opportunities to develop her own networking skills. They always ended at the Alienage, where Hawke and Merrill would visit the market to grab fresh vegetables and meat to cook dinner together. Completing her shift, Aveline would visit after dinner, and Hawke, Leandra, and she would work on their petition to the Viscount's office to regain the Amell mansion. Isabela always seemed to know when Hawke had reached the limits of her attention span, for seemingly on cue she would arrive to escort Hawke away for a 'nighttime stroll', which often degraded into them searching for locked doors just so they could practice their lockpicking skills on them. Aveline, of course, was far from pleased when she had caught them in the act, so it became even more of a game for them to lockpick while avoiding a very red-faced and frustrated Guard Captain. By the time the city had reached complete darkness and they had tired of their game, Isabela would escort Hawke home or to the Hanged Man, where either Isabela or one of their companions would be ready to spend the night.

As the nights passed and the nightmares’ frequency diminished, Hawke's companions began to trust that she would not revert to her old ways and gave her more time to herself. She still kept herself busy, taking the odd job and continuing with archery practice, but she felt a yearning for a deeper purpose within her days.

It was why she had decided to enter the Chantry on this day, for the morning Wintersend service. She had never considered herself to be devoted to the Maker, although she did believe in the tale of Him and His Bride. Varric and Fenris had agreed to join her, the former begrudgingly, although as they sat in a pew listening to the chorus' Chant of Light, she found a rare bit of peace in eyes often left dark by his past.

The service today was bustling, the pews so full that many of the patrons were standing along the walls. Elthina appeared pleased as she concluded the service, and the many surrounding them stood and began to make their way out the doors, Varric and Fenris included. Hawke, however, stayed, approaching the chorus to pull Sebastian aside.

When she neared him, a broad grin stretched across his handsome face, brightening his eyes. "Hawke!" He held his arms wide and embraced her. When she pulled away, he held her by the shoulders at arm's length as his eyes darted across her features, his smile remaining firmly planted. "You look better every day. Did you enjoy the service?"

She couldn't help but smile back. "I did, thank you. You have a wonderful singing voice."

A faint pink coloured his bronzed cheeks. "Aye, you say that, but they put me in the back for a reason."

A rolling laugh escaped her. "We're having a Wintersend feast at Gamlen's tonight. Would you care to join us?"

"After the evening service, I would love to."

"Good." She nodded firmly. "See you at sundown, then."

\--

Truly, for the first time in as long as she could remember, Elise Hawke was at peace.

The peace was amid chaos, as it always was with her group of companions. Isabela had thrown a spoonful of mashed potatoes at Anders, who had thrown a spoonful of peas back; Varric and Sebastian were in a heated discussion of the merits of the bow verses the crossbow; Fenris was questioning Aveline on her training in the art of the sword and the shield; and Merrill and Hawke were viewing it all from their quiet corner of the table.

"It's crazy," Merrill said to Hawke, "But it's _our_ crazy."

Leaning back in her chair and letting out a healthy belch, Hawke nodded in agreement. "I wouldn't trade it for any other crazy."

At that moment Leandra entered, a fresh apple pie between her hands. Gamlen followed with the bowl of whipped cream, something close to a smile warming his features.

"Pie, anyone?" Leandra called out. The group clambered to clear the table to get the pie into their bellies as quickly as possible, Isabela pushing Varric out of her way.

Hawke knew that she would never have her siblings or her father back.

But this?

This was still her family.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I had decided to sign up for Dragon Age Big Bang this year, I was pondering over what to write, and I chose to write about the detrimental effects of alcohol because it’s something that has affected my life, as it has so many others, whether personally or through a loved one. 
> 
> Although when we’re young and foolish we drink in excess and laugh about it the next day, drinking is not something to be taken lightly. It can lead you into an irretrievable darkness, something anyone, regardless of age or gender, can be affected by. Although I wrote about Elise in the context of one event leading her to turn to alcohol for her grief, alcoholism can affect anyone regardless of if there’s a catalyst or not.
> 
> If you have a loved one who’s suffering, be there for them as best as you can. Unlike Elise, support will not always resolve the issue, but a lack of support definitely will not.
> 
> If you are the one who’s suffering, do not be ashamed. Seek the support you need, whether from family or friends or even anonymous channels. 
> 
> All of us need to raise awareness on the issue. Alcoholism is not a choice, it is not fun, it is a disease and something that we can’t control.
> 
> If anyone who’s reading this needs someone to be their Merrill, I will be there. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for taking the time to read this.


End file.
